Icicle Wars
by Channel D
Summary: Tony and Tim are at war...over a game. Their animosity is carrying over to their work. When trouble strikes, will they cooperate? Drama written for the 2010 NFA Secret Santa fic exchange. Three chapters, now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Icicle Wars**

**by channeld**

_written as_: a Secret Santa fic exchange gift on the NFA  
_rating_: K plus  
_genre_: drama

The given prompt: "I would love a Tim/Tony, or Tim/Jimmy friendship fic (NOT slash, not even a hint) using the following lyrics as a prompt:

_His welfare is of my concern_  
_No burden is he to bear_  
_We'll get there_

_For I know_  
_He will not encumber me_  
_He ain't heavy, he's my brother_.

From_ He Ain't Heavy He's My Brother _by Bobby Scott and Bob Russell.

Other comments: This doesn't have to be a song fic, in fact I'd prefer it wasn't, but I do want the sentiment expressed by the lyrics to be the prompt for the story, and naturally if there was a little Tim whumping involved that would be entirely acceptable."

With that, I've chosen to do a drama featuring Tim and Tony.

_setting_: Washington DC in December. The time is the present. No spoilers involved.

_disclaimer_: I still own nothing of NCIS.…

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Tim didn't react at all. His attacker had moved up on him silently as he stood at his desk, dusting it. Sound wasn't the only sense working for Tim, however. He sensed that someone was there by the sudden change in temperature near his neck. There was no door or window near Tim to let in a December chill, so therefore, someone was…

Before the attack could commence, Tim had grabbed the attacker's arm and thrown him over in a neat judo flip.

"_Ow!"_ said Tony, rolling on the floor and pressing a hand on his impacted head while Ziva, from her desk, gave a small cheer. "Why'd you go and do _that_?"

"Why were you about to attack me?" Tim challenged, calmly.

"I was only going to put this ice cube down your neck, Mc…McOverreacting!"

Gibbs gave him a glare. "Stop dripping in the squad room, DiNozzo. Take your pet ice cube outside, or throw it into the sink."

"But…" Tony glanced out at the cold, early winter day, and decided that the sink was the better choice.

"What was that all about?" asked Ziva.

"_Icicle Wars_," Tim explained. "It's the hot new game on Facebook. Players, called 'iciclists', plot novel ways of killing their opponents with icicles. Haven't you played it?"

"No, I do not play many online games. But what does this have to do with you and Tony?"

"We both got interested in it, unbeknownst to each other. We wound up by chance as opponents two days ago. Ever since then…"

"I _will_ get you, McGoo," Tony snarled, and attempted to squeeze a water-logged wad of paper towels over Tim's head. Tim didn't dodge quite fast enough and found his hair drenched. With a cry, he aimed a punch at Tony, but his arm was yanked back, painfully, by Gibbs,

"You two are fighting over a _game?_" Gibbs thundered.

Tony charged, "He's already tried to kill me twice!"

"Succeeded once," Tim said mildly.

"I've killed _you_ _three times_!"

"I've lodged a protest on two of these 'killings', as you know!"

Gibbs noticed that the shouting had drawn Vance's attention. The head of NCIS was looking down from the balcony, and he did not look happy. "You two: Go out and dig up something on the Lorimer case. _Now!_" Gibbs ordered.

Neither man moved. "Together?" Tim asked, finally.

"Yes, _together_! You're part of a _team_, aren't you?"

"Let that be a lesson to you, McAlphabet. There is no 'I' in 'MCRT'," Tony snarked.

"There aren't _any_ vowels in 'MCRT', Tony," Tim replied hotly.

"I think they were just saying that they are _opponents_," Ziva said, cheekily. Under Gibbs' room-toasting glare, however, Tim and Tony slowly rose and put on their coats; and then they picked up speed, scurrying out.

* * *

The day was gray; winter drear. Two weeks of indecisive weather had had the temperature always flirting with the freezing mark. Snow, followed by minor thawing, followed by more snow; and repeat. Today was one of the colder days; cold enough to be frosty everywhere, on the heels of a day that had seen sun and melting. Now snow and ice clung to everything. The only saving grace was that the motor pool car had not been left outside, and hence was snow and ice-free.

Tony, as usual, snagged the car keys from the lot attendant before Tim could move to do so. "I don't trust you to get us there safely," he said to Tim.

"I don't trust _you_, period," Tim shot back, and then sighed. "Tony, this is stupid. It's just a stupid game. Let's put this animosity aside and get our job done."

" 'Just a game?' " Tony echoed. " '_Just a game?_' Like war games are 'just' games? I think not, McSoldier. Games prepare one for Life. Strategy, preparedness, cunning…all the things you've yet to learn..."

Tim snorted. Tony, however, was not finished. "…capture, kill, victory through slaughter. Ah, yes. Those are the fine points of game-playing."

"I don't think—"

"Of course you don't! That's what I'm saying! Because of that, you usually roll around in your namby-pamby little fairyland games of elves and trolls, princesses and dragons and all the other trappings of girls. Not that there's anything wrong with that," he added mockingly.

"Now, wait a minute—"

"For what? For you to come out with a four-syllable word defending yourself? Oh, don't bring out the _Dungeons and Dragons_ argument again. If you were still playing that, you would have _dweeb _written over you 24/7, and not just _some_ of the time, as you do."

"I just—"

"And now you're panicking, because at last, faced with a _real_ game, you've found that you don't have what it takes…"

Tim stared straight ahead at the gray landscape as Tony turned onto the highway. "I have plenty of what it takes. I've been gaming for a lot longer than you have!"

"Maybe so, but I have a _natural _instinct for strategy. This is a _man's_ game, Timmy. You're not killing orcs and demons here; no imaginary foes. In _Icicle Wars,_ you're killing _people_. Like your own kind. If you have a kind, that is."

"Oh, shut up. I get your point, all right? You think I'm weak. You think I can't handle the stress of a game that pretends that one is killing people."

"Yes, that's what I'm saying. You're stuck in the games rated _E_ for _Everyone._ You're a long way from being ready for the _T_ for _Teenage_ level of violence."

"So you _do_ know something about games and their ratings. Should I be impressed? Probably not. You probably dated a bimbo who told you about games ratings."

Tony slowed down as traffic in front of him did the same. "My point is, you're too soft, McGoo. You have that _stay-inside-where-it's-safe-and-warm_ look, attitude, and build. You weren't meant for the tough stuff. You _can't handle_ the tough stuff. I, on the other hand, am a born warrior; descended from Roman warriors."

"_I'm not soft!"_ Tim raged, straining against the seat belt, before settling back in his seat with an aggrieved sigh. "I don't weigh as much as you do anymore, but I'm wiry. I can hold my own against you, physically, any day."

"You sure of that?" Tony asked with a dangerous smile. "In real life, you think you could best me in a fight?"

"Yes. If it came to that." Tim sounded like he might be trying to force confidence into his voice. "Say, what's the traffic holdup?"

"Don't change the subject," said Tony, although he craned his neck to see. "I see a tow truck's lights…looks like a car went into a ditch."

"We should stop; see if they need any help."

"What; you think your warrior-self can pull a car out of a ditch, like Hercules?"

"I hate to break it to you, Tony, but automobiles didn't exist in Hercules' time."

"Hercules was fictional, by the way, McMyth. Anyway, we're superfluous; I can see a police car now."

As their car moved slowly along, the two agents found their minds wandering from the online game for a few moments. There were worse things than cutthroat competition…like having your car going off the road and getting crumpled when it hit something. At least no one appeared to be injured. A man and a teenager, bundled up against the cold, stood by, looking sad, as the tow truck operator assessed the situation.

"Going too fast, do you think?" Tim remarked.

"Maybe. Or maybe he hit a slick spot. I can feel a little ice on the road under the tires."

"Maybe the kid was driving, and her dad was giving her lessons."

"Bad time of year to be learning."

"Yeah, but if you've just turned 16 and therefore can get a learner's permit, you'll want to be out on the road. And good for her Dad to want to have her learn under different road conditions."

Tony only grunted. Then, after a minute's silence, he said with a serpentine smile, "Better than having her plow into a bus, I would think."

Tim's wide eyes nearly bore lasers into Tony's head. "That's low, even for you, DiNozzo. I don't know why I ever told you guys about my accident when I was 16."

"Your choice," Tony laughed.

"Let's just get this assignment over with."

"Am I grating on you too much?"

"You're taking a competition way too seriously. It's only a game."

"That's what losers always say. _It's only a game._"

"Your attitude isn't healthy."

"Not healthy? Of course, it's healthy. The fit survive, McGerbil. Your days, I'm sorry to say (well, not really sorry), are _numbered_."

"There's our exit," Tim remarked, waving his hand at the highway marker.

"And _your_ exit is coming soon," Tony chortled.

"Oh, stop that."

"When you take your dying breath…then I'll stop. And I'll stand over your lifeless body, my sword raised in triumph."

"Now you're starting to scare me."

"You _should be_ scared, McGoo. Your dweeby reign is about to come to a bloody end."

Tim shivered. It really was a bit frightening to hear Tony this obsessed with winning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The Lorimer case, the team's current case, concerned a family of Navy officers. One. Lt. George Lorimer, had died in mysterious circumstances aboard a ship. An NCIS team closer to that scene was dealing with that. Nearer to NCIS HQ, in Maryland, another family member, Lt. Patrick Lorimer, had been found strangled in his bed just a day after the death of his cousin George at sea. The Maryland lieutenant's wife. Beth, had vanished. Her father-in-law, a retired chief petty officer (Arnold Lorimer) who also lived in the house in question, had claimed to not know where she was.

And then he, too, had turned up dead.

A week had passed since the older man's death, and nothing new had turned up. Clues were few. Part of this was due to some bungling of evidence at the crime scene by well-meaning neighbors (who had even straightened up the furniture thrown about in the apparent struggle, wanting the house to 'look nice'!) before the LEOs and NCIS had arrived. There had been no useable fingerprints, no signs of weapons, nothing out of order.

The house was located northwest of Frederick, on the edge of Catoctin Mountain Park. Tim grimaced as Tony turned the car onto mountain roads which appeared to have had only a feathery touch of a snowplow. While there was only an inch or two of snow on the road, and most of that along the shoulders, the absence of sand or salt was troubling. Tim thought about urging Tony to be careful, but decided that in his mood, this would just spur Tony into macho recklessness.

Off the road, the snow was close to a foot deep; higher in drifts. The Lorimer house was easy to find; the first house on the trail leading from the road. The long driveway, going past the Lorimer house, led to a couple other houses in the next half mile.

The mountain road was a sun-baked Florida road in comparison to the gravel, iced-over trail. The poor sedan bounced and shuddered in the ice and ruts. Both agents looked relieved when they pulled up to the house and stopped. "We should also talk to the neighbors again," Tim remarked, looking down the trail, although the other two houses couldn't be seen through the trees.

"Yeah. We can walk down there."

They looked at the Lorimer house. It was three stories tall and dark gray in color, making it almost blend into the sullen sky. No lights were on; no one was at home now. That made sense; NCIS had determined that there were no other close relatives. George's parents had died years ago, and he had been an only child. Patrick's only sibling, a sister, had died from an illness ten years back. Beth had no family. Arnold's wife was long dead.

The Lorimer family line had come to an end.

"If Beth is still alive…" Tim murmured.

"She's either guilty or afraid," said Tony. "Without knowing enough about her, it's hard to say which."

"Unless she's got magical powers, there's no way she could have killed both George at sea and Patrick here in under 24 hours."

"All that means is she wouldn't have been working alone."

Tim gazed at the house. "I think it must have been a happy house. Unhappy people don't decorate lavishly for Christmas." Although they weren't on, strings of Christmas lights were clearly visible. They outlined the eaves of the house and the door frame, as well as circling the fir trees growing in the front yard.

"Old house. Probably built in the 1920s. Siding needs some repair, and they really should insulate better." The house must have lost heat at an alarming rate. The roof was almost completely clear of snow, and the resulting runoff water had formed long icicles all along the eaves.

"That's a military salary for you," Tim shrugged. "Surprising that Beth Lorimer didn't work. A second income might have fixed that." They both ducked under the _police line – do not cross_ yellow tape and approached the house.

"Well, the Lorimers are beyond caring now." Tony faked a grab at one of the icicles on the railing. "You feeling lucky, Probie? Is this a good day to die?"

"Not even funny, Tony, considering two people _did_ die here," Tim snapped. He went past his teammate and opened the door with the key NCIS had obtained.

"You know, an icicle can be the perfect murder weapon." Tony's voice dropped into a sinister range in the quiet room as he followed Tim in. "It naturally has a point at the end. A little creative chopping and it's as sharp as a dagger."

Tim scoffed. "Not unless you're talented at working with ice."

"But it's doable, and probably not that hard. And then…lethal city! You plunge in the 'blade', and do you know the best part?"

"There's a 'best part' in killing someone?"

"Of course there is, McGopher. The murder weapon _melts_! It can't be traced back to you. There's no DNA, no fingerprints, no nothing! The perfect crime."

"Even frozen water, especially that running off from something like a rooftop, may carry impurities," Tim argued. "Fine amounts of dirt or pollen or dust which forensic analysis would find in the wound. That would offer some clues."

"Ah, maybe. Maybe not. But could you ever use it to find a killer? I don't think so. I tell you; it's the perfect crime."

"What; are you planning to use that on me in the next round of _Icicle Wars_?" Tim said lightly as he moved around the room.

"Others have probably already thought of it," Tony replied sadly. "I'm surprised that you, a supposedly-trained investigator, wouldn't know that." He gave Tim a steely look. "I don't think I've ever seen your certificate of graduation from FLETC. Let me see it when we get back."

Tim turned to look at him, and put a hand on one hip. "No."

" 'No'? What do you mean, _'no'_?"

"I mean I won't do it because you're being obnoxious today."

"Oh ho ho. You're just nervous about our next match-up in _Icicle Wars_. Admit it."

"No, because I'll likely kill you again in it…There's nothing here. Let's go talk to the neighbors."

* * *

Nothing new was gleaned from the house of the nearer neighbors, the Poults. The more distant house, belong to the Carver family, also seemed to turn up something. Then Marcia Carver remarked, "I just never expect anything like a murder here. Not in this area."

"People always say that," Tim smiled to show his remark wasn't met unkindly.

Tony was a little swifter on reading the body language. "Why do you say that, Mrs. Carver?"

"Two military men. Right here. Not in this area." At his blank look she went on. "With all the security of Camp David so close by; the helicopters flying low…"

That did it. Of course. Camp David, the retreat of US presidents, was located in the Catoctin Mountains. Nearly everyone had heard of Camp David, even though the mountain range name was mostly unknown to people outside the Mid-Atlantic region. Both Tim and Tony looked a little chagrined for a moment at having forgotten the proximity to the heavily-guarded area. They thanked Mrs. Carver and walked back up to the Lorimer house, their shoes crunching ice as they went.

"Think it's connected?" Tim asked. "The Lorimers and Camp David?"

"I doubt it. The Secret Service must be aware of the Lorimer murders. We haven't heard from them."

"Unless they're conducting their own investigation and don't want to talk to us."

"Why would anyone not want to talk to us? We're pretty likeable." Tony said as he walked back up to the Lorimer house's front steps.

"What are you going back in there for?" Tim said. "We've got nothing. You know as well as I do that the only reason that Gibbs sent us out here was to get us out of his hair."

"You mean, to get _you_ out of his hair," Tony smirked. "Gibbs _likes_ me."

"Oh, we're back to that, are we?" Tim sighed greatly. "Will you never grow up, Tony?"

"Will you never grow a backbone, McGoo?"

They both looked up as a helicopter rumbled overhead. The clouds were dark enough that they were unable to make out the helicopter's markings. "Just how close to Camp David _are_ we?" Tony mused.

"You really want to know?" Tim pulled out his phone and called up a maps app.

"Not that much, unless it's really relevant to the case." Tony waved an arm in disgust, yelping as his hand hit a large icicle overhead…only to have it break and come crashing down on him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Oh, God. What happened?" Tony asked, weakly. He realized that he was lying on his back, on the cold, icy, snowy ground near the icicle-laden house. He felt a cushion of some sort under his head…his sore, sore head…and extra warmth over his torso. _A blanket?_ Yes; a standard-issue drab olive green blanket, like the kind that was stowed in the trunk of each NCIS vehicle. "McGee? Where are you?"

"Right here, Tony. Welcome back to planet earth."

"I was out? For how long? What happened?" He stirred, but found that any movement hurt.

"About 10 minutes. You were beaned by a falling icicle. Got quite a bump on your head; maybe a concussion. I put a bandage on your head and was about to call an ambulance."

"Don't need an ambulance," Tony said with attempted force. "Though…I may let you drive back. Hey!" His eyes fixed on Tim now, who had his arms crossed over his chest—over his coatless, jacketless chest. Tony then realized that Tim's NCIS coat and his sports jacket must be doing duty as the pillow to his head. "Are you nuts? It's cold out here! You'll freeze."

"Not intending to hang around outside any longer than I have to. You sure you're okay to ride back to NCIS?"

"Yeah; I'm sure. I can always see Ducky when we get there."

"Okay." Silently Tim was glad that he knew where a couple hospitals were en route, just in case. "Ready to get up? I'll give you a hand."

"Give me a minute…it's a little harder than I thought." In fact, it was about five minutes before Tony was ready to sit up. "Your feeble attempt to slay me with an icicle failed, Mc…Mc…I can't think of a good retort."

That much worried Tim. It might be a sign of cognitive problems in Tony's mind. "You know, I think maybe we should get you checked at a hospital after all," he said.

"No, no, no; not necessary. I have a harder head than you might think," Tony said, moving with a groan, and accepting Tim's hand to pull him to unsteady feet.

"I'm not even going to touch that line."

Tony weaved and clung to Tim for steadiness. "Don't think that this changes anything in our _Icicle Wars_ game. I'm still going to kill you as many times as it takes until you stay dead."

"I think that this game might do serious things to our mental health," Tim said with a roll of his eyes. "Look; that helicopter is back."

The helicopter seemed to hover over their position for a few minutes; unnaturally low. "What's he waiting for us to do—signal him?" Tony wondered.

"They may be checking on us, if they're aware this is a crime scene." Tim raised his voice to be heard over the helicopter noise. He considered turning around so the _NCIS_ legend on his coat would be visible, and then realized his coat was still on the ground, where Tony's head had been. And he still felt cold.

Tony became steadier, despite the slight shaking of the ground with the helicopter's sound waves, so Tim let go of him as the helicopter moved on. Tim moved onto the steps of the house, out of the wind. Hugging himself for warmth, Tim considered retrieving his coat, or else, perhaps more importantly, first wrapping the blanket around Tony, who still looked grey. "I think—"

He never finished the sentence. Suddenly, icicles rained down on him from high up on the house, loosened by the sound waves: very long, heavy icicles with sharp points from several days of thawing and freezing.

Tony watched in horror from a few feet away as perhaps a dozen icicles hit Tim and knocked him down. On unsteady feet he ran to where Tim lay on his back. "No…" Three enormous icicles protruded from Tim's chest, and blood poured forth from there and a head wound.

* * *

_"No,_ McGee! Only _you_ would try to recreate something out of _Grey's Anatomy_ for a joke. Only _you_ would…"

It took Tony a few seconds to stem his mouth from its desire to babble and to get his hands into action. His unsteady hands, powered by his still-too-fuzzy brain. "You can't do this to me, McGee," he said as his mouth started up again. "First you play the rescuer, and you give me your coat, and then now…"

_Dang it, Tony; shut up and do something!_ he told himself. "Gonna stop all this," he said. "Not gonna let this happen…"

_What do I do? Phone Ducky for advice? Phone 911? They didn't give us training at FLETC in dealing with icicle impalement. He doesn't have the time. He could bleed to death in the time it takes me to make a phone call._

_I've usually been successful by trusting my instincts. That's the DiNozzo way. My instincts say 'remove the impaling object, unless it has a barbed end.'…No, wait; wouldn't that make him bleed more? At least the icicles are keeping the wounds kind of closed…until they melt from his body heat…and then he bleeds all the more…if he's still alive by then…_

"I'm gonna get you out of this, Tim." Now Tony remembered. There was something in the back of his mind on first aid and impalements. _Don't remove the impaling object, unless it…unless it what? _Airway_. That's it. Only if it obstructs an airway. _

"Tony…" Tim's voice was weak and soft.

"Yeah, McGee. Right here."

"You…win. _Icicle Wars…_You said you would kill me…with an icicle…"

"Now you just stop that, McGee. You're not going to die…" Even though Tony knew Tim wasn't really accusing him of anything, the comparison to his words earlier was profoundly painful.

"Freak…accident. Doesn't matter if you…intended it or not…you won't get an ambulance here…in time…"

Tony was drawn up short. _He's too perceptive! Way, way too perceptive, with that big brain of his._

"Tim, just stop talking, okay? Talking is just taking up too much energy." _Warm. Keep the victim warm. The blanket! I could…am I nuts? Drape the blanket over the protruding icicles?__!_

In desperation, Tony looked around for a hint of something he could do. Swiveling his head only made it hurt all the more. He stumbled for the car and retrieved a mallet from the box useful stuff in the trunk. It fell from his hands three times as he tried to grasp it. In frustration, he tried to close the trunk lid. That took four times, and even then he wasn't sure that he had it entirely closed.

He wanted to use the mallet to break off part of the icicles that had impaled Tim. The icicles were almost three feet long, massive in size at the broken end, and probably weighed at least 20 pounds each. That weight was surely adding to Tim's discomfort. _But can I break them off without causing them to move much in the wounds and causing more damage? With these unsteady hands?_

_Decision time._ "Probie, I'm going to…going to put you in the car. On the back seat. Then we'll drive. Somewhere. We'll find a hospital. Use your GPS system, or something."

"No, Tony…" Tim said. "You have a.. head injury. You shouldn't…be moving…at all. Don't…try driving."

"Gotta get help for you, Probie." Tony was surprised at the unaccustomed gentle tone in his own voice. "Can't just stay here and do nothing." He swallowed, seeing now the bluish color Tim's face had taken. Maybe Tim was right; maybe there was no time.

_No! I refuse to give up!_

_The DiNozzos are descended from Roman warriors. We fight to the finish. We will never, never give up!_

"What you said to me…earlier…you're right. I'm…not a combatant. You…win."

"Enough of that. I'm getting you out of here. _Pick up Tim, or move the car? Move the car._ Despite his head screaming in pain, Tony gritted his teeth and ran (in a fashion) for the car. He started it up, not bothering with the seatbelt, and aimed it toward the house, crashing through the flimsy yellow police tape barrier. It was wobbly driving, but he did manage to stop short of Tim. Now it wouldn't be so far to move him.

"Don't do this…Tony. Please…look out for yourself."

"Sorry; I have selective hearing in emergencies. I didn't hear that."

"You're risking…unnecessary. Tony…phone for help…for yourself…If you drive…you'll get in…an accident."

"You know, when this is all over, I think I'll do some research into rate of blood loss when gabby people won't stop talking. Is that pointed enough for you?" Tony winced at his bad choice of words. "Sorry. I meant…never mind."

"I'm…not going to…make it, Tony. I…can feel it. Why would you want to…risk…"

"Because I never give up. That's my rule number…I don't think it has a number. But it's my rule."

Tim's lips twisted in what might be a laugh. "Ironic…my going out…by icicles, isn't it….after all we said…"

"Yeah, well, a couple of idiots may have said that. That wasn't us."

Tim wouldn't let it go, however. "You said…you said I was a loser…You'd stand over…"

"Stop! Please! Look; I'm sorry, okay? I take it all back. Now brace yourself; I may need to roll you onto your side in order to lift you…"

"Why are you…doing this?...I'm not…a lightweight…It could…make your condition…worse…"

"Because you're part of my team, and even though I was never in the Marines, like Gibbs, I also don't believe in leaving a man behind."

"But you're…" Tim's voice had become soft now, and his eyes had closed. His shirt was nearly covered with blood.

"I'm not inconvenienced at all. I can manage. There's a way. There's always a way."

"But…"

" '_But but but._' What are you; a motorboat? Get this through your skull, McGee: You're not a burden. I'd do this for you today, and again tomorrow, and even next week." His voice caught. "I don't have many friends, Tim. A guy like me…all party and debonair on the outside; I've never had many people around me whom I'd call friends. And then you came along. You and I are nothing alike…but somehow, you became my friend. I can't afford to lose any of the few friends I have, Tim. I can't afford to lose you. I don't want to lose you." He started to cry. The idea of driving Tim to help in time was ludicrous. All Tony could do now was be with him when the end came. He fumbled for his phone to call Gibbs, but the phone couldn't be grasped any more than the mallet could.

His pulses pounded loudly in his head. Tony wiped his tears away with his hand, and then…

…and then he realized, as a shadow fell over him, that it wasn't his pulses that he heard, but an outside sound. _The helicopter!_

Tony looked up to see the dark chopper hovering, and then starting to descend. It landed in the yard, and a man in an Army jacket with lieutenant's pins jumped out and trotted toward them. "NCIS, huh? Could see from the air that your partner was wounded. Got good instruments, you know."

"Yeah," Tony breathed, awestruck. "Can you…?"

"Yep. We'll get him onboard and he'll be in treatment in minutes. Got clearance already to take him into Camp David. Your head is bleeding too, through your bandage; did you know that? We'll fix you up, too."

"You hear that, Tim?" Tony nearly shouted. "You're going to have to be my gaming opponent for awhile yet! You're not getting out of it that easily! HA!"

"What game is that?" asked the lieutenant. "Not that stupid _Icicle Wars,_ I hope. Our commander has forbidden it on the base. People were getting too immersed in it. Too violent. They were actually making _threats_ against each other; can you believe that?"

"What some people will do," said Tony.

"Games aren't worth it. Give me a hand here with your friend…" Quickly Tim was loaded onto a stretcher and secured in a space on the helicopter, and then Tony and the lieutenant climbed on board, too.

Tony looked down at the decorated Lorimer house as the helicopter rose into the sky. There was no answer yet to the Lorimer puzzle, but at least there was joy today for some.

-The End-

_a Tim & Tony production_


End file.
